


Aiko

by leia_scott



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Major Original Character(s), Violence, in which Catherine is a dynamic character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:40:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8905327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leia_scott/pseuds/leia_scott
Summary: Catherine Miller, still reeling in the wake of her father’s recent death, decides to put her life as a writer on hold as she sets out to piece together the legacy he left behind and the secrets he kept buried. In a search for answers that spans the globe she reaches out to the few people she has left, enlisting the help of David and a mysterious ex-Diamond Dog as she returns to her roots in Africa in the hopes of finishing what her parents started. It isn't long before she becomes entangled in the web of mercenary business, breaking the very promise she had made to her father years prior as her priorities begin to shift and her hunger for revenge begins to take hold. “Our duty is to pass on what we’ve learned to the next generation. The memories, the experiences… the sins. Only when our children show the wisdom not to forge new spears… Only then will we be truly triumphant.”- Kazuhira Miller





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> 13 May 1979 - Catherine Aiko Miller is born to Kazuhira Miller and Emmaline Ross in Rhodesia
> 
> 21 August 1986 - Emmaline Ross is killed in Angola
> 
> November 1986 - Kazuhira Miller leaves Diamond Dogs and takes up permanent residence in Cape Town
> 
> January 1993 - Kazuhira and Catherine Miller move to Sitka, Alaska; Kazuhira Miller joins FOXHOUND
> 
> 10 May 1993 - Kazuhira Miller marries Nadine
> 
> 12 January 1994 - Kazuhira Miller divorces Nadine, loses custody of Catherine 
> 
> December 1999 - Zanzibar Land Disturbance
> 
> 25 February 2005 - Kazuhira Miller is found dead in his home

_ _

 

 

 

_July 1983. Cape Town, South Africa._

 

  
  
        Kaz watched as Catherine ran her tiny fingers over the thick woolen carpet fibers in her search for the perfect addition to the long, winding wooden track she was constructing. The living room was washed in the muted orange light of the setting sun, a warm glow cast on its two occupants as they sat in a peaceful silence, quietly laying piece after piece across the wide expanse of the living room floor. It was almost therapeutic, Kaz found, and he wondered why he didn’t do this with her more often. Then he remembered that he rarely had the time in the first place; he had only meant to sit down with her for a few minutes while he took a break from the mounds of paperwork that waited for him back in the study, but those five minutes soon had passed, and then another five. And so he had been sitting here with her for the past hour, his legs crisscrossed and his back already beginning to ache as he helped his daughter build an ambitious stretch of toy train tracks that he couldn’t really spare the time to build in the first place.  
        He looked over at her and smiled, his heart filled with a familiar warmth as he watched her begin to problem-solve now that their pile of extra track pieces was beginning to dwindle. A single strand of strawberry blonde hair hung before her eyes as Catherine looked down at the wooden pieces before her with an expression of intense concentration.  
        “Daddy,” she said, picking up two of the pieces and comparing them side by side, “where are the sharp turn pieces?”  
        Kaz looked back at the very first section of the train track she had constructed, which was haphazardly built with winding twists and turns that circled the legs of the coffee table.  
        “Looks like you used them all up back there, sweet pea,” he said, chuckling.  
        Catherine pouted and glanced over at the portion of the track he was referring to before looking back down at the pieces in her hands.  
        “We don’t have any more?” the timbre of her voice turned upwards at the end of her sentence as she asked the question she already knew the answer to.  
        “I’m afraid not. Looks like you’ll either have tear up that other part of the track or do something else with the one you’re working on right now.”  
        She grew silent and Kaz turned back to the portion he was working on, a stretch that navigated around the couch. It was harder than it looked, trying to compromise with the remaining pieces, but it helped him take his mind off of the insurmountable stress that came with keeping a massive war machine afloat. The young PF had been wrought with financial problems and bad luck ever since it had gotten off the ground, but he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet. These things took time. And a lot of sleepless nights.  
        He heard a quiet sniff from behind him and he turned to see Catherine wiping away a single tear.  
        “Kitty, what’s wrong?”  
        Her bottom lip began to quiver and she tried to hold back her tears as she looked down upon the apparent calamity before her.  
        “I just- I just-” She burst into pitiful sobs, bringing her hands to her face as hot tears streamed down her little pink cheeks. “I j-just wanted to m-make a turn around.” Her sobs progressed to wails and Kaz sighed, uncrossing his legs and standing, wincing as his joints began to ache in protest from sitting on the hardwood floor for so long. He picked up a few wooden pieces and made his way over to her, sitting down once more at her side.  
        _“Shhh,”_ he said quietly, examining the situation before him. The track had formed almost a complete circle and was missing one single turn for it to be complete. “Look, honey.”  
        Catherine began to quiet down as she watched him take away one of the pieces and switch another in the opposite direction so it formed an S-shape. He then took one of the pieces in his hand and laid it down next, so that the only piece absent was a short straight-away. He turned to her expectantly.  
        “What do you think we’re missing now?”  
        Catherine turned to the small pile of pieces next to her and pulled the appropriate one from it, laying it down in its place along the track, which now sat completed before them both.  
        She wiped her eyes once more and smiled, looking down at the track in front of her as if her father had performed some miracle before her very eyes. Kaz smiled and brushed a finger along her cheek.  
        “That wasn’t too hard, was it? Nothing to get bent out of shape about.” He handed her the remaining pieces that he had been holding. “Just because it seems like you’ve hit a dead end, it doesn’t mean you did. You just have to look back and…” he pursed his lips and searched for the right word. _“... Adjust.”_  
        His words of wisdom were lost on Catherine as she jumped up and started back on the rest of the track, replacing pieces here and there the way Kaz had done to free up the ones she needed. He smiled and watched her go, a sense of pride filling his chest. She would figure it out. He rose once more and stretched, picking up his now-cold mug of coffee from the table.  
        “I’ll be in the office if you need me, Kitty.”  
        “Okay, Daddy.”  
        He made his way back into to the hallway, pausing for a moment to crack his back. Catherine began to hum quietly, already deep in concentration with the momentous task before her, and Kaz chuckled softly as he headed back towards the study.  
        His mind had already begun to switch gears as he sat back down behind his desk once more, much to his displeasure. Catherine’s problems slowly melted away and lost relevance as the issue of the recent budget cuts claimed his attention once more. He hated having to spend his rare occasions at home worrying over work, but there was nothing else to be done. Every single time it was the same situation; he would go home for a few days just as his patience was beginning to wear thinnest, then he would get just enough R &R to go back with enough sanity that he wouldn’t start to approach the ragged edge until a few weeks later, when the cycle repeated itself. It was a self-destructive cycle, and he was well aware of it. It didn’t do Catherine any good, either, and he could even see Emma starting to fall apart at the seams as she got caught in the undertow of the stresses of raising a daughter almost singlehandedly. He sighed and turned his attention back to his paperwork once more, working the numbers in his head and scribbling notes in the margins here and there.  
        His pen strokes began to get increasingly patchier, and the sound of the slowly drying pen scratching on the paper began to grate on his nerves. He was mid-thought when the pen finally ran out of ink, and he quickly scanned the desk for a new one, trying to keep the thought fresh in his mind. He pulled out the drawer below the desk and fumbled around for a new one with no luck.  
        “Where are all my fucking _pens_?” he said between clenched teeth, rooting through the drawers for something - _anything_ \- to write with. Was there only one pen in the whole goddamn house? Just like that, his train of thought slipped away despite his attempts to keep a firm hold on it. He slammed the drawer back into the desk with his foot and held his head in his hands, trying his best not to lose his temper. He swore quietly, closing his eyes as he tried to focus. He felt a presence in the doorway and he looked up to see Catherine standing there, silently watching him with large blue eyes.  
        “I’m sorry, Kitty. You didn’t need to hear that.”  
        She slowly came forward and held one of her bright green gel pens out to him, looking away in shame.  
        “I couldn’t find any others,” she said timidly.  
        His expression softened as he took the pen from her, examining it with a smile. “That’ll do just fine. Thanks, Kitty.”  
        She grinned proudly and put her elbow on the desk, resting her chin on her hand. “Ah-jus, right, Daddy?”  
        Kaz laughed. “Adjust. Yeah, that’s right.” He leaned over the desk and placed a kiss on her forehead. “It’s what we all have to do sometimes, huh?”  
        She nodded, despite not necessarily knowing the context or meaning of what she was agreeing with, and turned around, skipping out of the room once more.  
        Kaz looked down at the pen in his hand with a chuckle before uncapping it and getting back to work, finishing the sentence as best he could with gaudy green lettering.  
        _Adjust._  
        It was something _he_ needed to work on too. He could only lead by example if he practiced what he preached. Despite how it always seemed, the world _would_ slow down and allow for some adjustment. He just needed to give it some time and a little bit of patience. Adjusting was something he had never been very good at - or very fond of - but he promised himself he would put a little more effort into it from this point on.  
        For Catherine’s sake.


	2. Alone

 

 

_4 March, 2005. Cape Town, South Africa._

 

 

 

        “Maybe… You want to say something.”  
        Catherine snapped out of her trance as David’s voice cut through the silence, and she tucked away the scattered memories she had been trying to sort though as she gazed down at the headstone before her. Under her mud-covered rubber boots and the fertile South African soil lay her father’s body, the very thought of it still so foreign and upsetting to her that she once more felt tears spring to her eyes and bile rise in her throat. She felt that he would surely suffocate under all of this dirt, that he would somehow wake up and open his eyes to the darkness of a sealed coffin, forever encased and separated from her.  
        He couldn’t really be gone.  
        “Ah…”  
        Catherine bit her lip as the unexpected waver in her voice cut her thought short. She could feel David’s tired gray eyes burning into her, secretly and silently wanting her to be the voice for both of them as they stood before the grave of a man who had died with nothing, _no one_ , other than the two lost souls that now stood above his lifeless body.  
        It was hardly a service. David had done all of the dirty work, splitting his hands on the handle of the shovel as he worked tirelessly all afternoon to dig up the sandy soil, careful not to disturb not even a single blade of grass on the plot next to it. Meanwhile, Catherine had waded through the sea of grass and brush at the bottom of the hill in search of the best wildflowers, careful not to trample any. As she entered the cool shade that the side of the house cast over the vibrant petals, she couldn’t help but look up at the place she used to call home, its exterior far from the shape it was in twenty years ago when her father still had the time and energy to do regular maintenance. The house still jutted out over the beach as regally as it always had, but it seemed lifeless now that it, too, had lost the person that had given it life. She had trekked back up the hill a little more slowly, arms full of fynbos and daisies and a mind full of memories she had thought she had forgotten.  
        Catherine sniffed, still at a loss for words. She was still holding the flowers, but part of her didn’t want to actually put them down, as if doing so meant sealing his fate, his eternal sleep. She finally mustered her courage and knelt before the headstone, the cool soil staining the knees of her jeans as she slowly brought the flowers down to the base of the marble slab.  
        “Daddy,” she said quietly, as if it were just another late night conversation between them in the kitchen as he set down a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her. _He would always put three marshmallows on top. No more, no less…_ She paused for a moment, struggling to keep the waves of emotion at bay just a little longer as the bits and pieces of memories tried to claim her attention, twisting the knife that already had found itself embedded in her heart. “There was something you said when Mama died…” She looked to the headstone next to her fathers, nineteen years’ worth of weathering beginning to show but the lettering still etched deeply into the stone. She became lost in the name upon it as she realized she no longer remembered the exact words that he had said that day, no longer remembered the woman he had said them for. “But I can’t remember,” she said, tears welling in her eyes as she felt every ounce of hope leave her body. “ _Chisa… chisa wa…_ ”  
        “ _Chisa wa madowazu, yusha wa osorezu,_ ” David said quietly.  
        Catherine looked over her shoulder at him, a single tear slowly sliding down her cheek. He was standing with his head bowed, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, very obviously affected by the same old phrase. Catherine turned back to the headstone.  
        “ _Chisa wa madowazu, yusha wa osorezu,_ ” she said, her heart breaking as she stumbled over the elocution, her slight South African accent preventing the Japanese pronunciations from rolling off her tongue as effortlessly they did for her father. It would have upset him to hear her butcher the language; it always did. It was a constant reminder of how little an impact he and her mother had on her in her younger years as they galavanted across the Seychelles, only returning for birthdays or special occasions. It was only when her mother died that he had become aware of the Afrikaner that was his daughter, how she had been raised more by neighbors, teachers and an aunt than by her own parents. He had spent the rest of his life trying to remedy that, trying to make up for lost time. And here she was now, speaking mangled Japanese once more as if she hadn’t already done enough to agitate him in his lifetime. She might as well have been spitting on his grave.  
        She reached out and gently traced her fingers over the grooves of the letters in his name, the name she now bore the weight of. His life, his legacy… The Miller name would die with her, and she had nothing to show for it. In her moment of weakness she broke into a sob, floods of memories of rotors thundering over their roof and the cold metal of her father’s handgun that sat on her dresser next to her stuffed giraffe suddenly breaking over her like a wave, and she sunk lower to the ground, unable to surface for a breath.  
        And so she wept, her tears falling to the soil and disappearing into it as the sun, too, fell below the horizon. It threw its dying orange rays over them, reflecting beautifully from the polished headstone and catching the edges of the leaves on the single lavender tree that sheltered them.  
        “Daddy,” she repeated, finally able to catch her breath. “I don’t know what to do… Tell me what to do…”  
        She didn’t expect a response, and she didn’t receive one. The gentle sea breeze tousled her golden hair ever so slightly, perhaps as a gentle reassurance that he was still with her in spirit. She slowly leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool marble and closing her eyes as the tears slid freely down her cheeks.  
        “I will never forget you. _I promise._ ” She stayed there for a moment, completely still as her hand slowly trailed down the stone. She rose to her feet and looked down upon the two headstones, quickly brushing the tears from her cheeks as she became aware of David’s eyes on her. “Daddy… Mama… I love you.” And with that she turned, slowly making her way back over to where David stood, trying to conceal the redness of her eyes by keeping her head towards the ground.  
        A heavy hand rested on her shoulder and she looked up to see him looking down on her with a solemn expression of empathy and hurt that a thousand words could never describe. They slowly made their way back down the hill together, quietly picking their way through the swaying and whispering beach grass.  
        David finally and somewhat jarringly broke the silence as he cleared his throat.  
        “Are you flying back out to LA tonight?”  
        “No,” Catherine said quietly, tucking her hands into her pockets. “There’s some business I have to attend to here. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do with _that._ ” She motioned in the direction of the house, which seemed to beckon her, to draw her in as it sat there quietly, perched upon the cliff.  
        “What about the house in Sitka?”  
        Catherine pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know if I could do it… Knowing that it’s where he died-”  
        “It’s okay,” David said quickly. “I can keep an eye on it.”  
        “Thanks.”  
        They made it back to the driveway and headed back towards the car, falling into a contemplative silence once more. Catherine reached for the door handle but paused, looking back up at the house behind her. David seemed to read her mind.  
        “Do you want to look around before we go?”  
        “Yeah.”  
        She slowly made her way up the steps, drawing the key from the pocket of her windbreaker. She couldn’t help but notice the scratches around the keyhole, remembering her father’s constant fumbling with the lock time and time again. It never failed to make her giggle as a child, and even now she felt a bittersweet smile cross her face.  
        She slid the key into the hole, making sure to press upwards on the lock as she turned the handle. The heavy wooden door slowly swung open under her touch, and the memories of her childhood hit her full force as she stood in the threshold, daring not to step forward, to disturb the dust that had been accumulating since 1993. She finally mustered the courage to step inside, sliding her mud boots off next to the door and making her way down the hall towards the spacious living room.  
        A fine layer of dust covered everything, and the large windows in the living room were no exception. The setting sun’s light was filtered through the particles, some of which now floated through the air like fairy dust, swirling around Catherine as she turned, taking in the room around her. David hung back, leaning his shoulder against the wall as he watched her.  
        “Daddy’s room,” she muttered quietly, the incomplete thought suddenly springing to her head. She made her way up the stairs, the hardwood fibers of the floor clinging to her socks after sitting in neglect for over ten years. The steps seemed so much shorter than they used to be, and as she reached the second floor she paused, looking down the hallway towards the door of the master bedroom, which was slightly ajar.  
        Everything in the house had been left the way it had been before her father married Nadine, when they had moved back to the states. Everything had been left the way it had been before her father had stopped mentioning her mother, stopped displaying her picture on the mantle on the fireplace. Nadine had put a swift end to that and her father had quietly surrendered, tucking all of Catherine’s mother’s mementos into a box and hiding it away, most likely now gathering dust in some storage unit in Alaska.  
        No, this house was frozen in time. Before Nadine. Before FOXHOUND.  
        And suddenly Catherine felt like she was seven years old again, clinging to the railing on the stairs with white knuckles as if there was a storm outside and she was going to go beg her parents to let her sleep with them. She steeled her courage and approached the door, slowly pushing it open.  
        For the most part, the majority of the room consisted of white sheets that were draped over the furniture, leaving her to only guess what familiar items of furniture sat underneath. Perhaps one of the shapes was her father, hiding under the sheet in a game of hide-and-seek, waiting for the opportune moment to jump out at her and barrage her with tickles, his deep laugh filling the room with its warmth. But the sheets and furniture sat stationary as she approached.  
        He really _was_ gone.  
        Two pieces of furniture remained uncovered, the bed and the dresser next to it. Catherine took hold of the comforter and gave it a shake, sending an explosion of dust upwards and causing her to sneeze. She smoothed it out over the sheets once more, the feel of the fabric all too familiar under her fingers. She then turned her attention to the dresser, and subsequently the picture frame upon it.  
        She gently picked it up, wiping her thumb over the glass. Her breath caught in her throat as an old picture emerged from the dust… Timeless, and yet forgotten for so many years.  
        She traced her finger over her father’s face, and then her mother’s, their smiles more genuine and bright than she ever remembered them being. Her six-year-old self stood between them, radiant and overflowing with joy as she stood hand-in-hand with the two people she loved most in the world. Young Catherine was innocent, naive, unaware that they would be gone again the next day. Young Catherine was truly alive in that moment, blissfully ignorant as her parents squeezed her pink little hands, knowing that they wouldn’t see her again for another few weeks or more.  
        Catherine bit her lip as frustration welled up inside of her. They would never tell her where they would go, what they would do for the weeks, sometimes _months_ on end when they were gone. In her youth she had accepted it as part of her life. But now she demanded answers, with no one to demand them from. She was unsatisfied. “Curious Cat”, as her father used to jokingly call her, could never settle with the lack of answers, and never would.  
        “Catherine,” David’s voice echoed from downstairs, and Catherine’s train of thought was suddenly derailed she realized how foreign his voice sounded in this house.  
        “I’m coming,” she said, setting the picture back down on the dresser somewhat reluctantly. She moved to the door, taking one look back at the room before heading back down the stairs. David waited at the bottom, staring absent-mindedly out at the sea through the dusty windows, but he turned to her once she reached the bottom of the steps.  
        “It’s getting dark. Let’s get you something to eat before I leave.”  
        Catherine nodded, following him back towards the front door and sliding her feet into her boots. They stepped out the front door into the dusk, and Catherine slowly closed the door behind her, shutting away her little piece of the past.  
        After a futile search for a restaurant that Catherine went to as a child, they eventually settled for Italian-style cuisine in a small restaurant that had only opened up recently. They had been ushered to a seat out on the terrace that looked out over the clusters of buildings that surrounded the Cape. Twinkles of lights coming on within the buildings and the lights on the far-off ships blended almost seamlessly with the stars that peppered the night sky, and the cool breeze that blew in from the sea smelled like… _childhood_. The only way she could describe it.  
        David sipped the wine that had been placed in front of him and glanced over the menu. Catherine could see the struggle in his eyes as he struggled to suppress the raw emotions that yearned to be free, all in an attempt to remain put together in her presence so she wouldn't see him crumble. It was simultaneously impressive and disappointing; Catherine felt like she was the only one truly shaken by her father’s death, even though she know it couldn’t have been further from the truth.  
        He leaned back in his chair and looked over at her.  
        “So you’ll be staying with the magazine?”  
        “Most likely.” Catherine massaged her forehead as she remembered the mountains of editing and writing she had to tackle when she returned to LA. It was her dream job, a steady income and a wonderful position. But recent events dulled the excitement somewhat considerably, and for once she found herself dreading returning to it. “I’ve got a promotion to work towards.”  
        “Hm.”  
        Catherine knew all of this talk of day jobs bored David, despite his asking in the first place. He had been somewhat quieter since their argument on the phone just a few days prior, which had quickly progressed to yelling and the exchange of harsh and scathing words that they both regretted saying. A discussion of her father’s burial arrangements had quickly turned into an attack on each other, and things had been on shaky ground ever since.  
        “David, I’m sorry about that phone call the other day.”  
        He sighed. “ _I_ should be the one saying sorry. I was being insensitive… a really, _really_ big insensitive asshole,” he said quietly, looking out over the Cape. “And selfish,” he added.  
        “You’re not selfish, David. He loved Alaska, and he loved _you_.” David bit his lip as her words met his ears and he held his gaze, not wanting to make eye contact with her. “And you were right,” she continued, swirling the wine around in her glass. “Maybe he would have rather been buried in Alaska.”  
        “But your mother-”  
        “- died nineteen years ago, David. Dad hated it here. He hated everything this place made me, everything it took from him.” She felt another surge of emotion threaten to manifest itself in the form of tears and she cut herself off, not wanting to go through any of that again. “He fell in love with Alaska. He would have rather been buried under a layer of snow than this stupid red dirt.”  
        “You were born on this ‘stupid red dirt’, Cat.”  
        “So?” Catherine huffed and took a swig of her wine, sensing herself being sucked into another argument, this time with switched sides. “We’re not doing this again.”  
        “No, we’re not. I’m sorry.”  
        The waiter came over and set down two steaming plates of food in front of them, but suddenly Catherine wasn’t hungry anymore, the smell of the pasta and sauce making her stomach churn. She sat back in her chair and pulled the cell phone from her pocket, flipping it open to see a torrent of new messages. She scoffed when she noticed the sender.  
        “What is it?” David said, looking up from his food.  
        “Nadine.”  
        “What the hell does she want?”  
        Catherine skimmed through the messages, all nauseatingly fake expressions of concern and sympathy followed by inquiries about her father’s will and testament.  
        “I’m not responding,” Catherine said tiredly, tucking the phone back into her pocket. She picked up her fork and twirled it around in her food a bit, waiting for her appetite to return.  
        “Will she be coming to pay her respects?”  
        The mere thought was so unimaginable that Catherine couldn’t help but laugh. “I never told her where he was buried.”  
        “ _Cat…_ ”  
        “What? She never asked.”  
        David shook his head and twirled more spaghetti around his fork. “Well… it’s probably for the best,” he muttered.  
        There was an uncomfortable silence, filled only by the sound of forks hitting plates as they both ate, pretending to still have an appetite after the events of the past week.  
        “What about you?” Catherine said, looking up from her food.  
        “Hm?”  
        “What will you do when you go back to Alaska?”  
        David pursed his lips, fidgeting slightly in his seat. “Lay low, I guess. Since… what happened with Shadow Moses... I just don’t want to draw too much attention to myself.”  
        The subject was obviously troubling him and Catherine quickly changed it, not wanting to force him to relive such recent memories.  
        “When is your flight?”  
        He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. “In an hour and a half.”  
        “Oh.” Catherine tried not to let the disappointment in her voice show. The thought of being here by herself for another day was frightening. She had no idea if she would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, rifling through her bag until she found her father’s old handgun, putting it to her head and ending everything. The thought terrified her but she hadn’t felt stable since her father died.  
        After they finished their dinner they took an equally awkward taxi ride to the airport, David falling silent once more. Catherine knew he was recounting what had happened during the Incident, the atrocities he had seen, and she felt guilty for ever bringing it up. She had never been the sensitive type, never been observant and respectful of peoples emotions. That was another thing she had promised her father she would work on.  
        When the taxi pulled up to departures David got out, swinging his lone messenger bag over his shoulder as Catherine got out behind him to wish him well. They stood there for a moment as the taxi pulled away, the sound of planes taking off and landing and the chatter of other travelers surrounding them as they shared their moment of mutual reflection, understanding.  
        “Thank you, David.” Catherine said, taking his hand in hers and giving it a comforting squeeze. “Take care of yourself. _Please._ ”  
        “Don’t worry about me, Cat,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Stay out of trouble, okay? If anything or anyone looks suspicious, call me. Make sure your alarms are on and you’re _never_ alone when you’re out-”  
        “I know, I know.”  
        He looked her over for a moment, his expression growing melancholy. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “He was a father to me through his training, his kindness, his love… But he was yours by blood.” He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Good luck, Catherine.”  
        He pulled away headed towards the doors, and within a second he was lost in a sea of people, suitcases and luggage trollies. Catherine lingered for a moment, her eyes welling with tears as she watched him go, wanting more than anything to run after him and beg him to stay. But her feet stayed firmly planted on the concrete, forever stuck in a moment of between. She turned back to the sight of the glowing skyline, the same skyline that she used to see from her window at night.  
        This was home. It always was, always would be.  
        She wanted to run so badly, to jump on the next plane for LA rather than waiting around an extra day. And yet she also wanted to curl up over her parents’ graves, to sleep with them one last time before she left again for god only knows how long.  
        _A moment of between_.  
        Catherine raised her hand and hailed another taxi, instructing the driver to bring her back to her hotel. She would lock the gun into the safe tonight, just to ensure that she wouldn’t try anything in her sleep-deprived state. She didn’t trust herself yet; the draw was too strong, the temptation too real.  
        As the taxi headed back towards downtown she watched the streetlights flash by past her window, lost in deep thought, deep in the memories that had been uncovered throughout the events of the day. She felt her heart breaking when she realized how many memories she had forgotten, all of the puzzle pieces that had been lost, nowhere to be found.  
        But she would never forget _him_. After all, she promised.

 


	3. And That's All She Wrote

 

 

_1993\. Sitka, Alaska._

 

 

 

        “Catherine. Your coat.” The words echoed through the hall, reverberating from the tall ceiling of the darkened living room where her father sat quietly in the armchair by the window, the orange glow of a cigarette illuminating his face just enough to highlight the circles under his eyes, the creases of his brow.  
        She hadn’t seen him sitting there.  
        “Daddy-”  
        “If you’re going to run away you’d better wear a goddamn coat.”  
        Catherine bit her lip, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly ashamed of herself. Her hand slid off the doorknob and she turned away from it reluctantly.  
        _“Sit._ ”  
        She started to make her way to the living room but stopped in the foyer, her determination and resolve coming back to her quite suddenly as she lingered between one path and another, between freedom and the hell she had been living in for the past year.  
        She could smell the alcohol from where she stood, and despite her father’s vain efforts to hide the flask under the chair she knew he had been drinking again. He had promised to stop years ago but that too was a futile endeavor, and it wasn’t long before he had succumbed to the temptations of losing his troubles in liquor, unable to bear the weight of the world on his own any longer. He shifted slightly in his seat and a metallic glint caught Catherine’s eye as the moonlight reflected off the barrel of his handgun, which sat perched on his knee. His eyes followed her gaze, and he subtly slid the gun back into his waistband with a long exhale, smoke curling upwards from his lips.  
        Finally she found the courage to let her eyes meet his, and in a final and somewhat half-hearted attempt at an act of defiance she took her coat from the hook and slid it on, zipping it up in one swift movement.  
        He chuckled, his teeth glinting in the moonlight like those of a jack-o-lantern, his smile chilling her to the bone. She stood up straighter despite the insoluble fear that clutched at her heart, and, taking a deep breath, she summoned the very last of her confidence.  
        _“Lag nou, ek vertrek nog steeds,”_ she spat, the Afrikaans rolling off her tongue in a way English never did, the articulation locking in perfectly with her crisp accent.  
        His laugh was cut short and his smile vanished just as quickly. His lip twitched into a subtle snarl as he brought the cigarette to his lips once more, quickly taking another drag.  
        “That’s my girl,” he said quietly, lowering his gaze to the floor before him as the smoke tumbled from his lips in an inaudible sigh. He watched it dissipate with a blank face as he dug his fingernails into the arm of the chair. Catherine knew he was well aware that Nadine didn’t permit smoking in the house, but her incessant disputations seemed to be momentarily lost on him as the nicotine worked through his system, working seamlessly with the bourbon to numb him.  
        He no longer cared.  
        A levee within her broke and a tear slid down her cheek, betraying her desperate show of strength. Her father’s eyes flitted back up at her, his cloudy irises gleaming in the moonlight. He looked more worn than usual, the creases in his brow suddenly more apparent. It wasn’t just the alcohol; even Catherine could see that. No, there was something else eating away at him.  
        “Catherine. _Sit.”_  
        Defeated, she slowly shuffled over to the couch and sat down upon it, her lower lip quivering as tears now flowed freely down her cheeks. She waited in the silence for him to berate her, to make his disappointment clear. But when he spoke again his voice was surprisingly gentle, laced with a certain sadness that she hadn’t heard in years.  
        “You can’t keep doing this.” His tone only succeeded in worsening how she felt about herself, and she sniffed quietly as he continued. “You’re just a kid-”  
        “I’m fourteen.”  
        He looked over at her tiredly, his grey eyes filled with pain she knew she could never understand, pain she never wanted to understand. “You know damn well you won’t last out there.”  
        “I’m not staying here. I’m going home.”  
        “Over my _fucking_ dead body,” he said, his tone growing cold as he looked out the window vacantly.  
        She could feel years’ worth of confusion and anger rising within her, emerging from the shadows and dark corners of her subconscious where she had kept it buried for as long as she could remember.  
        “What are you so afraid of?” She said, rising to her feet. He didn’t turn to face her; his eyes became unfocused as he watched the snow silently flutter past the window. Her lip began to tremble once more as she fought the urge to take him by the shoulders and shake him out of his trance. _“Coward,”_ she growled.  
        He didn’t even flinch. The word meant nothing to him now, not after the years he had spent drumming it into his own mind, letting it consume him and define him. He had accepted that it was a part of his being now, no less permanent than the blood in his veins or the air in his lungs.  
        “I don’t expect you to understand these things, Catherine,” he said finally, breaking his gaze and turning his attention to the stack of ashes at the end of the cigarette. In one swift movement he brought it down to the arm of the chair, crushing the butt into the delicate white upholstery.  
        “Daddy, no!” Catherine leapt forward and swept the cigarette from his hands, but it was too late. A burnt hole of a decent circumference now decorated the arm of the chair, and both Catherine and her father looked at it silently for what seemed like an eternity. _Nadine’s precious furniture…_ Catherine was shocked by this act of defiance, this break in his stoic behavior. “Daddy…” Catherine repeated quietly, still mesmerized by the black hole that was burnt into the fabric.  
        “Do you know what your mother once told me, Catherine?”  
        She was silent for a moment, caught off-guard by the shift in the conversation. When she spoke again she did so cautiously, although she already knew the answer to her question.  
        “Nadine?”  
        “No.” He clenched his jaw, and as his head shifted to the side slightly she could see his eyes glistening. _“Mama.”_  
        Suddenly the blurry vision of a woman flashed through Catherine’s mind, a woman with auburn hair and a kind smile… Catherine’s own smile. She could almost hear the echoes of a laugh, but the image was gone just as suddenly as it had appeared. She slowly sunk to the floor at her father’s feet, her eyes trained on him.  
        “What did she say, Daddy?” she whispered, afraid that even the slightest shift in her breathing could upset the mood, causing him to drop the subject entirely.  
        “She said-” he suddenly cut himself short, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes. He took one from it and brought it to his lips, flicking the lighter with shaking fingers. Once he managed to light it he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as two wisps of smoke unfurled from his nostrils. “She told me…” He trailed off, looking down upon Catherine with the eyes of a beaten dog. In that moment she seemed to glimpse straight into his soul, past the lies and the reassurances, past the mask he always seemed to be wearing. But an invisible chain around his neck held him back from saying anything further, and his moment of vulnerability passed with another puff of smoke.  
        She looked up at him expectantly, but she knew in her heart that it was a lost cause.  
        “Go back to bed, Kitty,” he said softly, resuming his impassive stare out the window once more.  
        She wanted to protest but she knew it would get her nowhere. She quietly rose, heading to the stairs in defeat. Her seemingly crucial desire to run away and start anew quickly faded, only to be replaced by an aching disappointment. She placed her hand on the bannister and turned back to him, eyeing the grip of the handgun that protruded from his waistband.  
        “I’ll see you tomorrow, Daddy?”  
        “Bright and early, sweet pea.”  
        She knew his mind was elsewhere and so she left him to it, quickly ascending the stairs and heading back to her room. Her heart yearned for those pivotal words her mother had apparently spoken, but she knew that now wasn’t the right time to pry further. Seven years was a long time to wait for such answers, but she had faith that one day he would open up. Patience had become her closest friend, always keeping her level-headed when the frustration started to set in.  
        She knew it was only a matter of time.

 

 

 

_March 2005. Manhattan._

 

 

 

        “But David-”  
        There was a rush of static over the line as David sighed, and Catherine squeezed her eyes shut as she prepared herself for the inevitable objection.  
        _“Catherine. I don’t know what else to tell you. I still really, really think you could benefit from seeing someone-”_  
        “You and I both know I’m not going to.”  
        _“Then you need to stop calling me. There’s nothing I can say that you don’t already know. These… government conspiracies, or whatever they are… they have to stop.”_ He paused, obviously not happy with the way the words had come out. _“Listen. I know it’s a tough pill to swallow-”_  
         Catherine huffed quietly through her nostrils and looked out the window beside her desk, tears already beginning to well up again as David continued.  
        _“-but trying to pin it on anything other than… what it was… is just going to hurt you more.”_  
        “He was getting better, David. He _had_ been better for years.” She knew she was trying to reason with herself just as much as she was trying to reason with him.  
        _“Sometimes it seems that way, Cat.”_  
        She bit her lip. She was grasping at straws, and they both knew it.  
        “But you can’t tell me that you’re not suspicious, too.”  
        _“I actually can’t say that I am, no.”_  
        Catherine grew silent for a moment, tracing the cap of her pen absent-mindedly over the words that had been scribbled into her notepad.  
        “David?”  
        _“Hm.”_  
        “Did Dad ever say anything about my mom?”  
        _“Nadine?”_  
        “No, my fucking  _mom_ , David.”  
        _“Not much, Catherine.”_

        She could hear the annoyance in his voice and she knew his patience was coming to an end. She cautiously prodded further. “And what he did say…”  
        _“-was not much.”_ His words were annunciated with a huff of irritation. She had reached the end of his rope. Albeit much sooner than she had anticipated, but still not all that surprising.  
        “Well… I guess I’ll let you go, David. I’m sorry for wasting your time again.”  
        _“No- I- Catherine…”_ He sighed. _“It’s not a waste of my time. I just want to see you starting to get over this, that’s all.”_  
        “And I will.”  
        _“Do me a favor and look into finding… someone to talk to, okay? This shouldn’t be occupying this much of your headspace.”_  
        “I _will,_ ” she lied.  
      _“Okay. I’ll talk to you another time, Cat.”_  
        “Bye.”  
        She hung up and slid her cell phone back across her desk with a sigh, staring absent-mindedly up at the clock on the wall before her. The hands were moving at a tantalizingly slow pace, as if they would start to move backwards again at any second.  
        She almost wished they would.  
        Catherine sat completely still for a moment, her golden eyelashes fluttering shut as she tried with every fibre of her being to summon back the distant memory, the memory that had been so suddenly and unexpectedly re-awakened by her simple string of conversation with David.  
        She _needed_ to talk about it. He didn’t understand. Not to some shrink, not to the ceiling above her bed, not to the picture on her dresser. She needed to talk to _someone_. Someone who knew. David was already shutting the memory of her father out for his own wellbeing. Hell, he was starting to shut her out, too, and she knew it was only a matter of time before he stopped answering her calls altogether, cutting her off from all she had left. He would never mean to hurt her, but somehow it would just… happen.  
        No, she wouldn’t dig into him any deeper. He was already trying so hard to heal.  
        She sighed, the last wisps of the memory fading with her breath. It had slipped through her fingers, leaving nothing but an open-ended question, the breath someone takes before they speak. Just another thing to keep her awake at night.  
        Catherine glanced back down at the notepad, at the words that had graced the first page for over a week now. They had been jotted down hastily but with purpose, the result of sticking her nose somewhere it shouldn’t have been, the simple misplacement of files in her father’s desk. Something the government had overlooked.  
        She reached across the table and picked up her cell phone again, quickly dialing the number written on the pad before her nerves got the best of her.  
        “I’d like to place a call collect.” Catherine waited for the operator’s response, then keyed in the appropriate sequence of numbers when prompted. The line began to ring, heightening her anxiety with each tone. There was a click and Catherine felt the breath catch in her throat. A female with a voice like honey answered.  
        _“Williams & Burns, how can I assist you today?”_  
        “Hi, um…” Catherine cringed, tapping her pen against the desk nervously. “I’m not really quite sure how I’m supposed to go about this. I don’t really know the protocol…”  
        There was a short silence before the female voice answered again. _“I’m sorry, you’ve reached the Williams & Burns accounting firm. You must have a wrong number-”_  
        “No no, I’m sure this is the right number. Listen, I just… I need to be directed to a…” She squinted at the name scrawled on the paper. “… a ‘Roy Campbell’, please.”  
        _“Who is this?”_  
        “My name is Catherine Miller. I’m-” She was interrupted by a harsh buzz as the woman hung up. “Oh, for the love of _god,_ ” Catherine huffed, snapping the flip phone shut. She started to chastise herself, disappointed in her lack of tact. But her concerns quickly faded as she became aware of how fast her heart was beating, as if it, too, was aware of how close she had been to what it was that she was looking for.  
        What _was_ she looking for?  
        Catherine sat back in the stiff office chair, her lips pursed as she pondered the question at hand. Her instinct said one thing and her heart said otherwise… But was that really all too different from any other situation? She could feel a pull within her, as if something intended to draw her away from this desk, away from this goddamn life she was living. Perhaps it was the prospect of things left unsaid, the notion that she had the power to pull those words from the mouths of those who would rather them remain unspoken.  
        She was an investigative journalist, after all. And a damn good one at that.  
        Catherine collected her scattered papers into their appropriate folders, choosing to ignore the fact that she hadn’t actually made any progress on her current stories. Suddenly her musings on corporate scandals couldn’t hold a candle to the idea of uncovering the things her father had kept hidden. His past, his business dealings, his time as a mercenary… Catherine’s own _mother_.  
        She pulled her old friend Patience back into the equation; these kinds of things wouldn’t come to light overnight. Once again she found herself wishing she had someone… someone who could point her in the right direction. She had hit a wall for the time being, so she would wait for the opportunity to present itself. Something would come along. Wouldn’t it?  
        As she tucked her folders into her messenger bag and turned off the lights, she looked back at her darkened office with an inexplicable air of sadness. The origami butterflies in the windowsill caught the rays of the setting sun, the edges of the creamy white paper turning to a soft pink. She thought of the hands that had crafted them-  
        _Hold on._  
        The traffic that evening seemed particularly unbearable, especially considering the rush Catherine was in to get back to her apartment. The lazily meandering clouds were moving faster than the cars piled up in front of Catherine’s taxi, and she tapped her fingers on her knee impatiently as the sound of blaring horns seeped its way into the cab. Suddenly her mind was racing again, making connections and jumping to conclusions when she knew she shouldn’t, but there was nothing else to do to pass the time.  
        The sun had already sunk below the horizon by the time she got back to her apartment, and as soon as she had closed the door behind her and dumped her belongings onto the floor she ran to the phone in the kitchen, trailing her finger over the numbers on the sticky note next to it as she dialed breathlessly. The line began to ring and she squeezed her eyes shut, praying for-  
        Almost in response came a click, and then a chipper male voice. _“Ace Mechanics, this is Tom-”_  
        “Tom? Hey, it’s Catherine.”  
        _“Cath- Jesus christ. How are you, kid? I…”_ He sighed, his voice growing somber. _“I’m so sorry about… Catherine, he was a good guy.”_  
        Catherine sighed, her fingers drumming on the counter impatiently. “Thanks, Tom. I was just wondering if I could talk to-”  
        _“He’s not here,”_ Tom said quickly. _“He’s, uh… He’s still… out.”_  
        “Oh,” Catherine tried to hide the disappointment in her voice as her excitement was suddenly drained, her hope fading away just as quickly. “Do you know when he’ll-”  
      _“Sorry, kid. I have no idea.”_  
        “Okay. Well.” Catherine cleared her throat. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”  
        _“Alright, Catherine. Take it easy.”_  
        She slowly hung the phone back up on the wall, her lips pursed as she realized that she had yet again hit a snag. It was really becoming a regular occurrence now, wasn't it?  
        She slowly made her way back into the living room, kicking off her shoes as she sunk to the floor next to the couch. A cardboard box full of her father’s belongings was just within arm’s reach and she slid it closer to her, peeling off the packing tape absentmindedly. She hadn’t sorted through this one yet. It had been kept in the attic of the Cape Town house for god-only-knows how long, accumulating a decent layer of dust before she had it shipped back to the states like the rest of the boxes, which had been sitting in her living room without purpose for the past few weeks.  
        Her heart still ached from the day’s disappointment, but as she pried open the box the feeling was quickly replaced by her overwhelming curiosity. It was apparent that her father had initially packed the box with some sort of organization, but it must have been jostled when she had it shipped. Pictures were scattered throughout the box unsystematically and mementos were strewn about like packing peanuts. She sat up on her knees and retrieved several of the pictures carefully, her eyes flitting over their glossy surfaces. She hadn’t seen these before.  
        Smiling faces she couldn’t put a name to graced the photos, possibly old acquaintances of her father, trapped in time within the borders of the old polaroids. She dug further into the box, retrieving more and more photos. Some of them were ripped, leaving a disembodied arm thrown over a shoulder or a body without a face. She squinted, trying to identify where the pictures could have been taken, but she hadn’t the faintest idea. Thick, dry foliage graced the backgrounds of the majority of them, and that did her no service in identifying their origin.  
        Her hands dove back into the box, pulling out maps, books, scraps of aged paper, an assortment of odds and ends that told her nothing. She could feel her curiosity turning to frustration as she neared the bottom of the box, but her breath caught in her throat as she saw a ripped photograph, her father’s young face upon it. She slowly withdrew it from the box, her eyes trained on his smile. To his left stood a large, muscular Shona mercenary, and Catherine smiled as she traced her finger over his familiar face.  
        _“Maba,”_ she breathed.  
        She turned her attention to the figure at her father’s right, who had been brusquely ripped from the photograph altogether except for their hand. A woman’s hand.  
        She sat slowly back against the couch, her eyes flitting over every detail in the picture. She flipped it over to see four characters scrawled into the back of it in a hand that wasn’t her father’s. _1977_. There was no indicator of where her father was at the time the picture was taken, no clue as to why the woman had been chosen to be ripped from that moment in time, perhaps tossed to the wind, perhaps stored away in…  
        Catherine turned her attention to the other boxes, suddenly feeling a fire surge within her with the possibility of solving just one small mystery, even if it was all she could ever accomplish. The thought of finding just one answer...

 

         The shrill ring of the kitchen landline cut through the still air. Catherine jolted awake, unaware that she had fallen asleep in the first place. She was surrounded by stacks of photos, organized in whatever fashion her sleep-deprived self had found appropriate. A pile of empty boxes had started to accumulate behind the couch and Catherine remembered what she had been in the middle of in the first place, and consequently remembering that she had dozed off frustrated, most likely by the lack of closure; she hadn't found the other half of the picture, and she had no idea where to start looking. She begrudgingly slid off the couch, throwing the blanket back onto the floor behind her.  
        _“Eish,_ I’m coming,” she mumbled, as if she expected the phone to let up on its harsh ringing just long enough for her to reach it. She shuffled into the kitchen, stifling a yawn as she picked up the receiver and brought it to her ear. “Hello?”  
      _“Good evening, Catherine.”_ The man’s Afrikaans was precise, but his consonants didn’t click naturally. It wasn't his native tongue. He clearly wanted her attention, though, and he had gotten it.  
        “Who is this?” She breathed, suddenly very awake.  
        _“You’re looking for answers, aren’t you?”_ Catherine froze. She clutched the phone tighter, her palms beginning to sweat.  
        “Who…”  
      _“Colonel Campbell won’t have those. Not the ones you’re looking for.”_  
        “Listen,” she said, her voice beginning to shake. “I’ll call the cops, I swear…”  
        The man laughed, setting off the hairs on the back of Catherine’s neck. _“You’re doing your old man’s name a disservice. Don’t waste your breath.”_ Catherine felt her stomach drop and she turned back to face the living room window, suddenly getting the feeling that she was being watched. The man continued. _“I’m on your side. I’m just here to offer you some advice.”_  
        “Whoever you are-”  
        _“You’re going to have to be a hell of a lot more careful about where you go poking around. Because if I can catch wind of your antics, you can bet your ass others aren’t so far behind. And they won’t grace you with a courtesy call before they slit your throat in your sleep.”_  
        Catherine’s breath froze and she gripped the edge of the counter with white knuckles as she spun around, peering into the darkness of her apartment.  
        “What do you mean? I…” She lowered her voice. “Who...?  _Others_?”  
        _“Take my word for it, Catherine. You don’t want to wait around to find out.”_  
        “Who _are_  you?”  
        There was a click and the line went dead. The phone slid from Catherine’s hand and dropped to the floor, the eerie tone buzzing through the quiet kitchen as Catherine backed against the counter. Her heart was pounding in her ears and the room began to spin. The man’s words echoed in her head, becoming more and more clear with each repetition as if he were here, speaking directly into her ear.  
        She slowly made her way into the dark hallway and pulled open the drawer of the armoire. Her father’s handgun was laid inside along with a full carton of ammo. She quickly took both and backed down the hall towards her bedroom, closing the door behind her and barricading it with a chair.  
        Catherine slid onto her bed and shook out the contents of the carton over her bedspread, loading the gun with shaking fingers. It felt so foreign in her hand, and it was only now that she realized that she had never actually held it before. Not loaded. Not as a weapon.  
        She watched the door with wide eyes, half expecting some hit man in all-black to come barging through, putting a bullet between her skull for making a single phone call, for stepping one foot over the line. What had she done? Or had someone been keeping tabs on her all along, just waiting for her to show the slightest sign of interest in something that should have been kept buried?  
        Fear clutched her heart but her eyelids began to grow heavy, and despite her best efforts to remain awake and keeping watch, she started to doze off, her grip loosening on the gun. The minutes faded into hours and soon she fell asleep completely, no longer able to fight the sleep that she had managed to fend off for the past several weeks.

        _What had she gotten herself into?_


End file.
